Sweat
by The Biker
Summary: Extremis. Murder. The death of Spider-man. Blood. A mutant with devastating power. All of these things entwine like snakes in a basket, but to what result...? Please R&R!
1. Adrenaline

Sweat: An Iron Man story by the Biker **Chapter 1: Adrenaline**

I'm sweating and hyperventilating under the helmet. The hyperventilation is just another redundant after-effect of Extremis, the extremely powerful drug that sees the function of your body as incorrect and makes, so to speak, a completely new blueprint. Once the subject is injected, there's no way out. Someone axes the Exit sign. When I got injected, it was the most agonizing thing I've ever felt and believe me, it has a lot of competitors. Well, it does reinvent your body I suppose. I had it injected cos this guy, Mallen, got sky high on the stuff and my armour (even upgraded at its fullest) couldn't react fast enough. The dose was specific; I wanted to be my armour, like it was a second skin.

When it was done, I could even communicate with other people by thought. I could push pieces of my armour from different angles to gravitate towards me. I could put a stop to Mallen. And I did, but the professor who invented Extremis, ex friend Maya Hansen, a doc at Futurepharm, got jailed. Too bad, even though she kept bringing up my weapons department that I'm trying desperately to put behind me. Life isn't fair.

At the moment I'm working on my speed and flight accuracy, not that I need to. I feel the heat of my boots through the dozen layers of safety materials and insulation on my sole. I wish this suit had adjustable heat settings; I'll be an Iron Man fry by the end of today. I take a steep dive, at least five inches away from the glass wall of the Chrysler Building, and smile at my burnished reflection. _Hey good lookin'_ I think abstractedly. _How you doin'? _

_Not much_ my other half replies, _I just have a really disastrous love life._ I sigh, and realize that I'm ten feet from the ground. I pull my fists up and the rest of me follows, my foot glancing off the ground. Too close. I need to be more careful. If I wasn't dosed up on Extremis I would've been halfway to China by now. Instead I'm rising steadily from tarmac level, avoiding gleaming yellow taxis. I can't be so cocky. Snap out of it. Maybe Extremis…? No, it couldn't be that. I had always had a cocky streak. Suddenly I'm spinning wildly out of control, mind _and_ body. Something had hit me in the face with a loud clang, and I had lost my bearings completely. "Jarvis!" I gasp. I clear my throat and push the panic out of my system; something that had taken me years to master with the help of Steve Rogers.

"Jarvis," I say again in a calm, clear voice. "Yes, sir," the computer drones. "Horizon lock," I shout. "Now!" Wait a sec. Why am I asking my computer? I mentally control every inch of this armour, each function waiting somewhere in my subconscious like files in a filing cabinet; waiting to be rooted through. "Wait," I say, half to Jarvis, half to myself. I search my mental filing cabinet for that one function. It sticks out like a sore thumb, as if my need of it is making it glow contentedly. I open it, and it engages horizon lock.

Six white lines flash across the blue screen, disappearing every time I roll in the air a different way. When I tumble in the direction I want, it takes but a moment to kick start my jet boots into overdrive. I swear, this time I feel the flames burning the sole again. "YEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAWW!" I scream at the top of my voice as I shoot past dazed onlookers. Let them onlook. I'm king of the world, Jesus in metal form. I eventually land on a roof somewhere and pull my helmet off. The cracks in the polystyrene tug at my hair as I do. The inside is so dark and gloomy, and when I look at the glimmering red and gold exterior I can't believe that was what I was wearing. I gasp. On the left cheek of the helmet was a jumble of numbers, faint as they were, imprinted it. I looked at my left fist. The jumble of numbers matched. I frowned. I couldn't have hit myself in the face, could I?

To be continued………………..


	2. Impulse

Sweat: An Iron Man story by the Biker **Chapter 2: Impulse **

I'm in my garage, thinking it over. The answer won't come easily, and if it does it'll be kicking and screaming. So I hit myself in the face. It sounds so stupid and infantile, but it's most probably true. A glitch in the armour, maybe? Shut up, Tony. You've been running frantic virus checks every waking minute. There's nothing visibly wrong with the armour. But what if there's something wrong with me?

I bury my head in my hands. A glitch with me? Maybe I'm just tired. I've been psyched up on Extremis, lately resulting in a lot of sleepless nights. Maybe it's just a tired twitch. A tired twitch whilst in the suit could be fatal… Maybe I should turn in early. I can't think straight. The suit deserves a break. I lock up the garage and climb the stairs. I enter my spacious bedroom and collapse on my double bed, inhabited with so many women, and fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. That could be literal.

Waking up was a bit of a pain. I was haunted by strange dreams involving Maya Hansen's betrayed, angry face and Extremis taking on a solid shape and chasing me around the labs of Stark Industries. Why would I dream something so stupid? Extremis isn't my enemy. Chasing me to embrace me, perhaps? I shake my head. I must be going crazy; I'm trying to make sense out of a stupid dream. I pour myself some breakfast and sit down at the long table. I know what I'm going to do today. Give my armour a test flight and work through all the different functions to see if they're working competently.

Ten minutes later I'm in my garage again. The tiny holes open up all over my body and I'm suddenly covered in the gold under-skin. I hold my hands up, and the pieces of armour suddenly gravitate towards me. I hear dozens of clicks and hisses as the armour links together. I see something glint on the face of the helmet as it floats towards me.

"Wait," I murmur, snatching it out of the air. I see something dark red glinting under the left eyepiece… Blood? Was it my blood? I feel my left cheek. I must've hit myself harder than I'd conceived.

It's a quantifiable amount of blood, and the way some of it still lingers on the golden surface makes me slightly uncomfortable. I snatch an oily rag and wipe the liquid off, and put the helmet on. "Power on. Start." The whirr begins, and I can feel the heat under my feet like I'm standing on hot coal. Pepper was all over me this morning: fussing, worrying, perturbing; the whole deal. I don't think she'll be happy by my lack of convalescence, but it'll have to wait. The armour needs testing before somebody, namely me, gets hurt.

I launch out into the fresh morning air, feeling free and elated. I twirl in the air, and it goes flawlessly. I spin and speed up, dive and flip, and it goes smoother than ever. I nearly decapitate the leader of a v-formation of birds with my swinging fist, but manage to dodge a mile away as I'm so finely-tuned today. Adrenaline pumps through my system, accompanied by recklessness. I twirl and swing over the bay, the vivid blue waves glittering while they wrinkle into each other, rolling onto the sand. Moss-covered rocks glimmer dully. With all this natural beauty dominating the morning, I must be a bit of a sight. I smile at the thought and perform an abrupt dive, cutting through fluffy innocently white clouds as I shoot toward the glittering sea. Inches away from the rippling surface I pull up, flying inches away from the water and barely adding an extra ripple. "YES!" I yell in elation and shoot towards the city.

I fly leisurely past the tall buildings, listening to the sound of rumbling engines and the screaming of my fans. I grin widely. I engage a lock on a dirty yellow taxi, zooming in. When the image was magnified I engaged x-ray, and I could see the portly cabbie with a donut clutched in his hand, the contents dripping through his fingers. I terminate the lock and zoom ahead. I shoot into the sky, overtaking an aeroplane. I have an idea, and slow down until the roar of my jet boots dulls to a murmur. I fly beside a round window, where a kid is playing his handheld console, and wave at him. He looks out the window, probably expecting clouds and endless plains of boring blue sky, but instead he gets me, the person who he sees as a red and gold blur in the newspapers, right beside his window. As I expected, he dropped his handheld, along with his jaw. Waves of cameras flash in the background as opportunists snap their digital pictures. The boy waves frantically, his eyes alight with joy and his mouth moving in mute screams. I give him a three-fingered salute and fly off. I chuckle.

I fly lower towards the not-so-towering skyscrapers and continue my leisurely flight. I don't think I'll be able to test my weapons out here, not with so many people around. I'll test them later. I think I'll enjoy lopping the heads off dummies in the practice room.

I spot something ahead: something glimmering in the far distance. I engage a lock. A circle appears around the unidentified object and zooms in with the x60 optical zoom. I grin. It's Peter, dressed in that red and gold outfit I gave him. (Hey, my costume my design, okay?). I'm still very proud of my little rebirth present to him (don't ask). It's made of a liquid metal that I converted to cloth, and has about a million and one special features on it.

I should call him later; I've been keeping to myself lately and haven't had the chance to speak to my novice in a while. I'm thinking of waving or something like that, but I realize he's about a mile away. I sigh. Suddenly, the heat under my soles increases and I'm flying faster than ever. I try to decelerate, but the boots won't obey me. I panic, because this is just like yesterday. I try to move my fists, but they won't budge, like I'm trapped in a red and gold bullet. I realize that Peter is now swinging leisurely across the street. The armour moves in his direction. I try desperately to veer off, but to no avail. "NO!" I yelled. "Pe-Spider-man! Move!" The sound doesn't exit the mouth hole. I'm doomed to silence. "Cut power, Jarvis!" I scream. "NOW!" My computer doesn't answer. I look away as I hear the deafening clang of metal on metal after travelling at a high speed. I hear a grunt from Peter. "No," I whisper with my eyes closed. I feel the armour landing on a surface and open my eyes. I'm standing on top of a building, with Spider-man lying injured at my feet.

"Peter!" I gasp. There is a groan from the heap on the ground. "Tony," he murmurs. "Wassup?"

This is an excruciatingly bad time for his trademark wit to kick in, but I smile in spite of myself. I suddenly feel myself bending forward, arm outstretched. "Peter!" I warn, "Move!" Peter confused as ever, leaps out of arms reach. Well, a normal person's arms reach. My arm shoots out and grabs his throat, constricting his breathing. "Tony," he managed to choke, "what's going on?" I start to reply, but then my arm tosses him away like a rag doll. He lands heavily on the next building. I think I've dislocated his shoulder. "STOP!" I yell to no avail. The armour ploughs forward regardless. "Tony, what's wrong with the armour?" he wheezes as I step over the gap in between the buildings to stand over him. He knows me too well.

My foot lashes out and kicks him over the edge. I gasp. But Spider-man shoots two thick threads of sticky gossamer strand; one sticks with a splat to the building and one hits me square in the eyes, covering my view. I'm rooting for him, and whoop. He swings up and kicks me in the face, and I find that out the hard way as my head snaps back. I feel my arm rise to my face, and my repulsors warm up. I can see the dim glow through the blob of web. The substance begins to melt off my face. Stupid repulsors!

Peter hits me full force in the side of the head, and I'm sent flying. My missile guidance system engages abruptly, and a minute missile launches from my arm. Spider-man twists his body, the whole glossy fabric of his costume adapting to the new found muscles, and the missile flies past him with a whoosh. I sigh sharply with relief, which is short-lived as the missile ploughs into the building across the street. I grimaced as I knew what that tiny missile could do.

There is an explosion, and flames blossom like red flowers. Chunks of debris rain down. "Peter!!!" I yell. Spider-man turns his head, nods brusquely and turns around. He sprays frantic, twirling strands of webbing, silver ribbons snaking through the air. Not two seconds later, every single piece of debris was suspended in mid air, over the heads of dazed onlookers. I gulp. People start screaming Peter's alter ego, but as selfless as he is he turns to face me, the sun glinting off his golden eyepieces. I am reflected there, and I can see I'm standing tensely in a fighting position.

"Is there some sort of override for this?" he asks anxiously, and I shake my head. He sighs. "Sorry, Tony," he says. I try to say "It's fine, do what you have to," but no sound emits from the mouth-hole. I suddenly lunge out, my fist connecting with his chin as I throw a fierce uppercut.

I must've jarred his jaw. I'm furious with myself. How could I let this happen? There's no way Pete can survive against new improved Extremis me, and I dread to think how I'll dismember him. Peter disappears over the edge. I stride over automatically and peer over the edge. He's not there. I take off into the sky and fly quickly over the surrounding buildings, my heat sensor blotting the screen scores of different colours. I pray to God it won't pick him up on the sensor, but that chance is very slim. Peter's body heat is, well, toasty, but during high octane fights it tends to fluctuate. He'll be hot or cold. I prayed for the latter.

The scanner bleeps and I groan in anguish as it zooms in on a figure standing on top of a small building. The armour dips abruptly, landing roughly behind Spider-man. Stealth mode is engaged, and I pray his Spidey sense will kick in. It doesn't seem like it. The armour moves stealthily behind Peter, who is still looking out over the street like he'd never seen it before. Suddenly he whips around, and I let out a sharp breath. But I gasp in horror as my arm rises. Why isn't he doing anything? He's panting heavily, hopeless. I feel the heat in my palm. _No no no_… A thick beam of gold light shoots from my palm, as something hits me hard on my left cheek. Again. I still manage to see the gold beam tearing through my best friend, and Spider-man crumples to the ground. "NO!!!!" I scream, but my calls are lost to the wind, and I look across the concrete ground I'm laying on to see gallons of blood pumping from Spider-man's side.

_**To be continued……………..**_


	3. Murder

Sweat: An Iron Man story by the Biker **Chapter 3: Murder **

Confusion. Anger. Revulsion. Car keys. The buildings on either side of me blur into each other as I reach a ridiculously high speed in my BMW M3. I figured a more subtle ride would be more appropriate for a hospital visit.

The roar of the engine dulls to all but silence to me. My fingers clench the steering wheel, my nails digging into it. My arms move with robotic accuracy. I'm practically one of the living dead.

My best friend is dying in a hospital bed. Spider-man, my novice, my only family. Killed by my hand: the metal hand of Iron Man. Earlier on a wave of hope nearly engulfed me; what if the person on standing on the building, sliced by my repulsors, wasn't Peter, just a poser trying to make extra cash off one of those tabloid rewards for Spider-man's identity?

My hope had been short-lived. I had received a call from Collins Michael MD saying that their patient's system was rejecting the blood. Guilt overwhelms me, as I remember my suit taking off, leaving my friend bleeding to death on that building with no hope. Somebody had spotted him, mercifully.

I pull into the deserted car park, the reason for its emptiness probably because they were charging twenty bucks an hour for parking. That didn't worry me. There are cars parallel parked in every square meter available around this lot, however. Stupid nosey low-life paparazzi. They're gonna have a field day when I walk in to see Spider-man.

I barge into the hospital. Several heads turn, and I'm nearly blinded and decapitated by the flashing and fluffy microphones swinging in my direction.

"Mister Stark! Why are you here? To see Spider-man? What relation does you-?"

"Mister Stark, over here! Any comments on your sudden appearance?"

"Mister Stark, did you get the birthday card I sent you?"

I bat a fluffy pink microphone away and continued my steady stride down the white hallway.

I race up the stairs, the scent of disinfectant heavy in my nostrils. I go to the door surrounded by shutterbugs and push my way through. I slam the door behind me, hoping a prying nose was whacked in the process. I gasp.

He looks so weak and vulnerable. There's a big tear in his suit, but the wound underneath is bandaged. An IV drip snakes along the ground and into the slither of exposed skin on his right arm, his glossy sleeve pushed up slightly. Guilt wraps its hands around my throat. I clear it and step closer. "Peter?" He turns his head excruciatingly slowly. I see the cloth of his mask stretch: he's beaming. At his attacker, who had brutally fought him without explanation. I wanted to be sick.

"Hey boss," he grinned.

"I'm so sorry," I blurted out. Peter laughed weakly. "S'okay. I know there was somethin' wrong wi' the armor."

That explains it. He's high, I can tell because his words are slurring, like overlapping waves.

"I heard you-" choke- "lost a lotta blood."

Peter laughs again. It's getting annoying. I'm trapped in a tiny room, pounding at the door, trying to escape; and he's carefree and high on drugs. "I'll be fine," he says dismissively.

"No," I growl, "you're not. I beat you to a pulp, and you're dying, and you're practically applauding me. You're laughing your way through this (more so than usual anyway) when I'm dying internally here. Please be serious."

Peter sighs. "Tony," he says in a patronizing tone, "forget the drugs for a sec. Though I have't'admit, they're doin' somethin' whack to my blood. Well, what's left of it." He sighs, but he didn't look that concerned. Well, I guess he did already die…

"Look," my novice said as firmly as he could manage, "I'll be okay, it's fine. Get outta here and get some sleep, you look like Morlun right now." He flinched at the memory of the vampire. I smile incoherently and took a step back. "Okay, see ya."

Suddenly, Peter erupts in paroxysms of gurgling coughs. He is choking on his own blood. "HELP!!!" I scream, and realize with despair that no nurse would be able to plough through that crowd. Peter's dying, and only I can save him. I reach out with my mind, find my armor locked in the garage and pull them toward me. Yank is more suited: I think one of the boots smashed a window on its way out. I briskly throw the window open and the armor encloses around my figure.

The last nut is barely in place when I launch myself out the window at the highest speed possible, my fists clenched tightly at my sides. I don't notice how uncomfortable the dent in the knuckles of the right glove makes my hand. I don't notice the get-well-soon cards and flowers I scatter around the room. I don't notice the ominous red line crawling across the monitor at Peter's bedside.

_**To be continued…**_


End file.
